Late, for (what I wish was) a very important date
You are running late.
I have ordered a cup of tea. Usually lateness bothers me, but to me you can do no wrong. Evidently, or I wouldn’t still be here.
I think about your message last night when I asked how you were. ‘Looking forward to seeing you’ it said. But I know the meaning I want isn’t behind it.
We hug as you enter. It’s longer than a normal friendly hug, we squeeze each other and I release an anxiety ridden breath. I rarely allow anyone to hug me, but with you I never question it.
I remember when you used to greet me. Every time I’d squeeze you, you’d make this noise. A tiny ‘oh’, like you were surprised I’d want to hug you so badly, before you entered into the hug. You’d kiss me on the forehead, and every time you did so I’d feel like the luckiest person.
You’re getting over an injury and it has been breaking my heart that I cannot help you like I wish I could. I want to make you cups of tea, and tuck you under blankets and tell you off for not resting enough. I ask how it is doing, as I touch your hand and pout my bottom lip.
I remember the first time I tentatively touched your hand. The start of our relationship was a slow burn, and it was five or six dates before we finally built up the courage. I remember touching your hand, leaning into your shoulder before our lips finally found each other. I’m yet to have a kiss quite like it. Want, electricity, butterflies. We indulged for a few good minutes before we made our way into your bedroom.
We continue our discussion over breakfast, talking about work and worries, deliberately omitting certain details. You can tell I’m feeling sad as we leave. I’m always sad when I leave you. You reach into your bag and give me a book you think will help my anxiety and worry, and loop your arm into mine as we continue to walk in the same direction.
I remember walking together in the small coastal town, two years ago to this day. I remember it being very busy, and not like you expected, and you panicked as we tried to find somewhere for our evening meal. ‘Food can wait’ I said, as I encouraged us to wander a little more, climbing over a wall to get to rocks by the sea. I sat behind you, and held you tight as we watched the water. Breathing in and out. The sex we had that night was incredible. It was simple. We said nothing. We kissed as we fucked. We fell asleep in each other’s arms as you whispered ‘You’re just incredible’ in my ear. And for the first time, I was starting to believe it.
You suggest we meet up in London next week when you find out we will both be there at the same time and some company would be lovely. I remember you telling me about the trip to London a while ago. In a few days you will tell me you’re going to Paris. It must have slipped out as you don’t tell me when you usually go to Paris. We both know what Paris means. And now I realise why you were quiet when I asked when you were heading to London. The idea of meeting up in London after a trip to Paris breaks me.
Is she like me? I can’t help but wonder. What does she look like? What do you talk about? Do you wander around Paris, and sit in cafes together- beside each other not across- like you used to with me? Does your hand rest on her leg as you cheekily try and grab a piece of the cake she chose? Do you kiss and fall into bed together, or fuck in the kitchen when you think the bedroom is too far? Do you tell her she is remarkable?
I suppose I’ll never know.
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